


The Foreboding

by good_fairytale



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Poor Elrond, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29901477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/good_fairytale/pseuds/good_fairytale
Summary: Why didn’t Gil-Galad and Elrond let Annatar into Lindon, while others welcomed him? Here are some musings on what could have happened.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur, Elrond Peredhel & Ereinion Gil-galad, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë
Kudos: 15





	The Foreboding

**Author's Note:**

> Most characters, places and events in my stories belong to Professor Tolkien. I merely love writing about them and occasionally add something or someone.  
> I hope you’ll have a good time reading the story.  
> *Aran – king (Quenya)  
> *Aranya – my king (Quenya)  
> *Arandur – king’s servant (Quenya)  
> *Artanaro – Gil-Galad’s name in Quenya  
> *Eldar - elves  
> *Elerondo – Elrond’s name in Quenya  
> *El-nin – My Star (in my headcanon this could be the term of endearment Gil-Galad used to address Elrond when they were out of office)  
> *elleth – female elf  
> *ellon – male elf  
> *Elrond is addressed by his academic title (Master) in this story, because it is set before SA 1697.

Harlindon, around SA 1200  
A small company of elven warriors was travelling through the woods at the foot of The Blue Mountains. The autumn has just moved past its middle, and the trees stood adorned in bright yellow and auburn colours glowing under still warm sun. Two scouts galloped from the opposite direction to a tall dark-haired ellon at the head of the group.  
‘Master Elrond! The way is clear, in two days we should be at the gates of Mithlond! An hour’s journey ahead there is a spring and a lake where we can stop to water the horses.’  
‘Thank you, meldir!’ – Peredhel turned to the Captain of his guard – ‘Anoriel, we must give everyone rest. We have been pushing them too hard on the journey’.  
The stern-looking black-haired elleth in dark blue cape and light silver armour draw closer to him on her stallion: ‘As you say, sir. However, I suggest that we do not linger. I hear these paths have recently been troubled by creatures from behind the mountains. The sooner I get you safely to Mithlond, the better’.  
‘So be it’ – agreed Elrond.  
While the horses were being watered and tended to, the guards refilling their flasks and sharing way bread, Anoriel looked around the site and noticed Peredhel rummaged through his satchel, and elicited a thin silver sickle and a trowel. She approached him with a grim expression on her face.  
‘With all due respect to you, sir, I would rather not have you roaming the woods I don’t have time to explore.’  
‘Anoriel, I will not go far, I need to collect some roots today while the moon is in the right phase.’ She looked at the guards, some busy with horses, some sitting propped against trees in waking sleep, regaining strength after the trying journey, and turned to him.  
‘I will watch you’.  
Peredhel turned away and indignantly rolled his eyes.  
During the next hour, he managed to find some bistort and golden seal, and was going to tell Anoriel, that they were returning to the camp, when he had a sudden foreboding. He drew a deep breath to calm himself and make sense of it. They were two days away from the capital of Lindon. Although no one could rule out that sundered evil creatures could still be roaming these lands, it was blissful time of peace. He was turning to call his loyal guardian, when she rushed towards him and pressed him to the ground. The same instant he heard the sound of an arrow released, and Anoriel grunted, then rose her head to find the archer.  
‘On me!’ – she screamed, and the sharp sound of alarm horn floated through the wood. Two more arrows whooshed through the air, piercing fallen leaves, when the elven guards came running to the site and their darts found the archers in the trees. Two bodies hit the ground. The guards surrounded Anoriel and Elrond, who jumped on their feet and drew swords. Seeing elven warriors charging, the creatures in the trees fled into the depth of the wood, jumping from tree to tree, and then to the ground. Peredhel turned to see how badly Anoriel was injured, when he received a blow into his right shoulder. He froze in bewilderment, than grunted and faltered, squeezing the shaft. The guard next to him flung a dart, and one more body dashed down from the tree. Another elf caught falling Elrond and carefully eased him onto the grass. In an instant, silence reigned. The whispering wind swept through the canopy of the forest, sending yellow and auburn leaves floating down. The guards examined the injured and started preparing to pull out the arrows. Some went to patrol the surroundings to make sure the danger passed, the scouts studied the bodies.  
‘One arrow will not be the end of me’ – roared Anoriel, when one of the guards handed her a dropper bottle with pain medication. – ‘Tend to Master Elerondo, quickly’.  
The scouts returned with looted bows and quivers.  
‘Master Elrond, they were humans…’ – started one of them, when Peredhel lost consciousness in the hands of a guard who was supporting him. Anoriel sworn and tried to stand up, when a mighty wave of heat and dizziness overwhelmed her.  
‘Poison!’ – was the only word she managed to utter before falling back into supporting hands.  
***  
High King Gil-Galad was pacing the anteroom of the Hilling Halls, his blue eyes shooting out lightnings.  
‘They don’t let me in!’ – he roared at entering Glorfindel.  
The last sight of his herald he had before the healers told him to get out of the way and pointedly shut the door in front of his worried face was excruciating: a tangled strand of black hair sweeping the floor and a gloved hand lifelessly hanging down from the makeshift litter made of a cape, as he and the equally unconscious Captain of the guard were hurriedly carried into the examination wards.  
‘Patience, Your Highness,’ – chided Glorfindel, - ‘We have studied the arrowheads and found that we have never encountered anything like this. If the ambushers are the mortals who live behind the Tower Hills, as the scouts claim, than they must have developed a new craft, for they are too finely made. The healers we engaged could not identify the poison, either’.  
The King swore, banged on the door with a fist, glared at the gathering of startled guards and counselors and barked:  
‘Do not you all have duties to perform?!’  
Heads bowed and with uncoordinated ‘Yes, Your Highness’ and ‘Yes, my Liege’ the gathering dispersed. The King squared his shoulders and exhaled. Several healers, who took part in the investigation with Glorfindel, hurried past them and disappeared behind the abused door.  
About an hour later, the Chief Surgeon emerged wiping his hands on a towel.  
‘No need to break the door, my King.’  
Ereinion and Glorfindel simultaneously turned to him.  
‘How does he fare?’ – demanded Gil-Galad.  
The healer put off his cap and sleeked his tousled white hair.  
‘He has lost a lot of blood. The wound is deep, and the one who pulled the arrow out broke his collarbone. The arrowhead was soaked with poison; we cleaned and closed the wound and gave him the antidote we normally use for similar poisons. However, he has developed a high fever and has not regained consciousness. We have done everything to stabilize him, and right now he is as comfortable as he can be in his current condition’.  
Ereinion listened with his jaws clenched.  
‘What of Anoriel?’ – asked Glorfindel. The healer nodded to the golden-haired ellon:  
‘Slightly better, she might soon regain consciousness.’  
‘Can I see him now?’ – Gil-Galad snapped.  
‘If that would comfort you, yes. Come in’ –the healer gestured at the door.  
When Ereinion entered the ward, a healer at Elrond’s bedside was changing a cold compress on his forehead and removing an ice pack from his injured shoulder. The King was going to tell him to leave, but the Chief Surgeon anticipated his move:  
‘He will stay. Elrond’s condition demands continuous watch.’  
Ereinion frowned. His dear friend was lying flat under heavy blanket, his right shoulder bandaged, hand in a sling, pale face looking strange with sharpened features. Gil-Galad took the offered seat at the bedside and squeezed the flaccid hand lying on the blanket.  
‘How long will he be… like this?’  
The Chief Surgeon spread his hands.  
‘Usually patients with such injuries start to recover in around a dozen of days.’  
Ereinion shook his head.  
‘When will he wake up?’  
The white-haired healer endured his gaze.  
‘Tis difficult to predict. It might take some time.’  
He never voiced his concerns that it might not happen at all.  
***  
Elrond was walking among grey ruins of a fortress. He had no idea how he ended up in such a strange and disturbing place. The stones looked like they were melting away into the air, dust running down like water. He turned around, taking in the ashy landscape and the dull sky of the colour of pewter. His light steps on crackled tiles on the floor lifted clouds of fine sere sand. Suddenly, something glinted in a heap of ash around a stump of a column, and he leaned for a closer look. His heart skipped a bit and sank when the grey lump collapsed under its own weight, and revealed a silver lap harp, intricately designed into a shape of a swan. He reached out and touched the cool surface of the instrument with hesitant fingers, when colours and sounds burst into the ashen world.  
He was standing in a spacious hall with tall stain-glass arch windows, bright winter sun pouring pools of yellow, blue and green onto the polished stone floor. He was holding the silver harp in both little hands; its weight was too heavy for him, and he clumsily dropped it on the stone floor. ‘What are you doing, you’ll get us into trouble!’ – hissed Elros, helping him to ease the instrument down onto the floor - ‘Maglor will lock us up in our room and make us cram verbs in Quenya, if we mess up again.’ ‘I haven’t broken anything. I just wanted a closer look’ – Elrond replied defensively, - ‘Just help me put it back onto the chair.’  
The memory waned and dissolved into the dull grey world around him. Elrond reached out to take the harp from the ash and sat down on the dusty floor. He stroke the strings, listening to the sound he hadn’t heard for centuries. The fading world stilled as if the music put it on a pause. He looked around, and started plucking the strings with skillful fingers, eliciting the tune Maglor used to play at grim pre-winter nights in Amon Ereb to lighten the mood and ease Maedhros’ brooding. Suddenly he realized that there was a suave voice, at first almost inaudible, but getting louder and more persisting as he started to listen. It sang to the music, telling that Maglor was still alive and they could be reunited; that he could learn a lot more than he knew and use his powers to reform minds, to cease wars, to banish diseases, stop the suffering, if only he, the scion of legendary elven kings and human heroes, would unite the two races to thrive under his hand. He broke the music off and frantically looked around. What was that? The familiar sinking feeling came to him again. He loved his foster father dearly, and in secret searched for him, but in vain. Also, he had never thought of himself as a ruler. Being by the High King’s side as his herald, envoy, and close confidant, studying languages, lore and healing was all he was contented with. It all was wrong, so very wrong. The realization was sharp like a flick of a whip. ‘Who are you?!’ – he shouted into the empty space, - ‘I refuse! Be gone!’ He hurled the harp onto the floor and it smashed into shivers. The voice hissed, then turned into a shriek, the space flew into a whirlwind of ash and dust; Peredhel screamed in piercing agony that washed through him before everything went black.  
***  
Elrond’s first awareness was the tightness of stitches on the shoulder and that he couldn’t move his right hand. He rolled his head to the side and involuntarily moaned at the pain the motion arose. He made an effort to open his eyes and in an instant closed them again, tears welling up, in response to blinding light. Someone’s hands cautiously guided his head back, blotted the tears, and lifted him a little up. He moaned again, feeling waves of nausea and dizziness washing through him. ‘Master Elrond, do you hear me?’- a soft voice called, and he made another futile effort to open his eyes and look at the speaker. He felt a rim of a cup pressing to his lips. ‘Drink this. Not too fast.’ He complied and managed to have a sip, then another. ‘Good. A little more...’ He finished the herbal brew, and his head was carefully lowered on the pillow. The pain was searing now, and the nausea enhanced. He coughed. ‘You must endure a little longer, sir; soon it will get easier. Let the tincture do its work.’ The caretaker checked his pulse, then gently massaged the wrist to ease the nausea, and some time later the pain and queasiness reduced to very bearable levels. The relief made Elrond drowsy, his exhausted body and mind demanded their rest. It didn’t take him long to lapse into dreamless sleep.  
He woke up again to the persisting dull ache in his right shoulder and the feeling that his right hand was still immobilized; there was a pressure on his left hand, stretched on the blanket. He swallowed in the dry throat. The nausea didn’t return, and he was endlessly grateful for that. Remembering the previous experience of turning his head, he remained still, yet tried to move his fingers; the grip tightened, someone stirred by his side. ‘El-nin?’ – whispered the voice he knew oh so well, - ‘Open your eyes, dear one’. Peredhel made an effort to answer, but the long-unused throat only issued a hoarse sound. He winced, slit-opened the heavy lids and managed what he hoped would look like a smile. Elrond’s vision focused on Ereinion’s happy face and he was about to repeat the attempt to speak, when the King shushed him:  
‘Don’t speak; I will call the healers’.  
He rose from his seat at the bedside and headed to the door.  
‘Master Glantir! – he called, - ‘Master Glantir! Come quickly! He has awaken!’  
Several minutes later there were arguing voices outside the ward, and the Chief Surgeon appeared accompanied by a young healer carrying a tray in his taw. He took Ereinion’s seat at Elrond’s bedside, the King sat on the bed and the young assistant started arranging bandages, ointments and bottles on the bedside table.  
‘Well, welcome back to the world of the living, my friend’, - said the white-haired elf, - ‘You didn’t make it easy’.  
Elrond made another effort to speak, but Glantir raised a hand in a dismissing gesture:  
‘Save your breath, Earendilion. I know all your wisecracks by heart. Are you in pain?’  
Elrond rolled his eyes.  
‘I see you are,’- the healer took a dropper bottle from his assistant’s hand and reached out to touch his patient’s chin.  
‘Open up, - Glantir dripped some viscous liquid into his mouth and closed it with a swift motion. Elrond grimaced.  
‘Keep it under your tongue,’- instructed the healer, and turned to the King.  
‘Your Highness, would you wait outside?’  
Ereinion glared.  
‘Master Glantir, are you sending ME away?’  
‘Yes, Your Highness, I am sending YOU away,’ – the Chief Surgeon confirmed with a cool face. – ‘Would you close the door from the outside and tell Lords Glorfindel, Cirdan and Celebrimbor to lift the siege from these Halls?’  
Gil-Galad looked at Elrond; Peredhel gave him a pleading look.  
‘Very well, Master Glantir, I would. However, I guarantee not that the siege will be lifted’.  
He winked at his herald and departed with all his kingly dignity. The Chief Surgeon watched him go and close the door, then he turned to Elrond:  
‘Now, let me have a look at you’.  
***  
Anoriel proceeded to the King’s office, stern, upright and in full set of armour, high helmet under her arm. The guards at the doors saluted to her, she bowed her head and entered. Gil-Galad was pacing the room, hands locked behind his back, blue and silver robe brushing the floor. In a chair near the tall window Elrond was sitting, right hand still in a sling, listening to a scribe, who was holding an open book for him. Seeing her enter, Ereinion stopped pacing, Elrond and the scribe broke off the conversation. The shieldmaiden kneeled on one knee and proffered her sheathed sword.  
‘Aran Artanaro, I am not worthy of protecting Arandur Elerondo any longer due to my oversight. I seek any punishment you deem applicable.’  
The King looked at his herald and came closer to Anoriel.  
‘Arandur Elerondo told me a different story. He told me you were bravely intended to trade your life for his. You shall remain by his side as the Captain of his Guard. Rise up and do your duty.’  
She rose up with ‘Serving our King’, saluted to Ereinion, then to Elrond, and left.  
One of the guards entered the office, greeted Gil-Galad and uttered:  
‘There is a messenger here seeking your audience. He claims he was send by someone called Annatar, an emissary from the West.’  
Ereinion looked at Elrond.  
‘Have you ever heard of the name?’  
Peredhel slowly shook his head, feeling the old sickly premonition rising again.  
‘No, I am afraid I have not. However, Aranya, I would advise listening to what this envoy has to say in the council hall with all members of the advisory staff participating’.  
‘So be it’ – nodded the King.  
The King’s Council took place in a few days, when all participants managed to get together. The messenger announced that his lord was eager to help Eldar make Middle-Earth a better place comparable in glory to Valinor by sharing knowledge and skills.  
The Council Hall filled up with murmur as the elves started discussions, which soon turned into arguments. Glorfindel, Galadriel and Cirdan supported Elrond’s concerns and doubts that such generous gifts would come for nothing, while Celebrimbor was insisting on accepting the offer. The Council’s meeting went well into the night, and in the morning the messenger was given guards to see him off the borders of Lindon with two letters for his lord: one forbidding him from entering Gil-Galad’s realm, another offering to pay a visit to Ost-in-Edhil.


End file.
